


The ghost of you (it keeps me awake)

by SmilinStar



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1692275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks nothing should surprise Coulson any more, but when the words, “I want to see him,” fall from her mouth, she thinks she's done just that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The ghost of you (it keeps me awake)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ward x Simmons Summer, based on the theme “Fallout”. Angst ahead people, lots of angst. I miss the days when I could write fluff to my heart's content.

 

\-----

 

S.H.I.E.L.D. is nothing but rubble.

Rebuilding it from the ashes is a venture Coulson does not take lightly, but its difficult to know where to start. With May by his side though, the foundations just start to slip into place and the building blocks start to pile up almost without thought or conscious effort.

There are more pressing matters to deal with than re-opening a secure facility to lock away the traitors and what's left of HYDRA. But still, Skye argues fervently for it to be prioritised on the Operation S.H.I.E.L.D. 2.0 (as she's dubbed it) agenda. She was understandably antsy about them being placed in federal prisons, especially since they could never be certain that all the arms of HYDRA had been cut off and flayed, that there weren't still HYDRA loyalists hiding away in plain sight.

They were not going to be caught off guard again.

May's solution was a lot simpler.

“Shoot the bastards” had been her pithy response to the questions raised about what to do with their prisoners.

And when she'd said “shoot the bastards” with that grim tone, fire burning behind the eyes of an otherwise expressionless face, everyone knew she'd only been referring to one bastard in particular.

Grant Ward.

If that really was his name.

She still finds it impossible to reconcile the man who had jumped out of a plane with a parachute only half way on, as Fitz would later tell her, and not really knowing for sure if the cure would work, with the man who had so callously dropped her out of the same plane and left her to die at the bottom of the ocean. She's not sure how a man who had spent hours keeping her afloat, treading water had gone from telling lame jokes and rambling aimlessly to keep her fear at bay, to be the one instilling it with nothing but a cold, emotionless and empty stare and a push of a button.

She thinks maybe he should be winning an Oscar for his faultless performance instead of the four walls and four square feet of space he'd been rewarded with in its place.

But then of course she shakes her head and those thoughts are replaced by nothing but white hot anger. She feels it eating away at her soul, her innocence already six feet under, dead and buried. The anger burns, the hatred feels like poison in her veins and all she can see is sweet Fitz's face full of disappointment and horror at who she's turning into.

She thinks nothing should surprise Coulson any more, but when the words, “I want to see him,” fall from her mouth, she thinks she's done just that.

It takes a moment for the words to register but when they do, she can see the word “why?” there in the creases of his forehead. The wrinkles smooth out a mere few seconds later as he answers his own question and she doesn't even have to say a word.

“Take Agent Triplett with you,” is all he says.

She wants to argue. She can handle this on her own, but the look on his face and the sheer force behind the words means an order is an order, and there is no arguing with him.

And so she responds with a nod of her own head, a “yes sir,” and the smallest smile of gratitude and appreciation.

“Give him hell,” are his parting words.

  
\-----

 

She feels queasy.

Too much adrenaline, breaking down a far greater proportion of her glycogen stores than her body needs.

She feels queasy and needs to pee, again.

Triplett raises his eyebrows when she excuses herself to use the ladies' room. “Again?” he asks, and then has the decency to look shamefaced, “I'm sorry,” he says. “Of course, go ahead.”

She's not sure how long she stands there in front of the mirror.

She splashes her face with cold water, once, twice, but it does nothing to calm her down. She grips the edge of the sink counter and leans forwards, her eyes scanning her own face. She was never one to give her reflections pep talks and its almost the slap in the face she needs. Grant Ward was not doing this to her again.

And so patting her face dry, she takes a deep breath and walks out.

Triplett just follows silently after.

 

  
\-----

 

  
“It's not a good idea.”

“I don't want to argue Agent Triplett. I will be fine. There are cameras in there, you can watch from outside. Any sign of trouble you can come flying in to rescue me.”

He grumbles and sighs, and finally relents, “Okay. I will not hesitate to shoot him though if he tries anything.”

He means every word, and some part deep down is touched, “Understood.”

For all the adrenaline building up beforehand, she is surprisingly calm when one of the prison guards unlocks the door and pushes it open.

The man in front of her is Grant Ward, but not.

He raises his head, and there is surprise and shock written all over his face. He is slow to hide it behind an impenetrable mask. Sloppy. It seemed he was getting sloppy.

She stands two feet away and he sits chained to the wall in front of her.

She sees his bottom lip quiver, tongue peeking out to wet them, the beginning of a sentence leaving his mouth, “I thought-”

And she thinks that's relief there in his expression and it fuels her ire even more.

“No,” she interrupts him, “You don't get to talk, you don't get to say anything, you certainly don't get to explain!” The last word comes spitting out and she hopes he gets the message despite her voice coming out even and controlled.

She's angry.

And now that she's here, she's not really sure why. She's not sure what she wants to say, and for the life of her can't remember what had fuelled this impulsive decision to see him. Not when looking at him makes her skin crawl and her heart thump angrily, painfully, in her chest.

_I'll catch you if you fall._

She takes a deep shuddering breath, her eyes falling closed.

When she re-opens them, he's still looking at her and all she can see is the laughter in his face at her ridiculous impression of him and the soft smile on his face as he encouraged her up that tree.

“Congratulations,” she says, “You failed spectacularly. Garrett's shot to pieces. HYDRA's been eradicated. Skye hates your lying, traitorous guts and Fitz and I are alive.”

She leaves out the part where he's still hooked up to the ventilator, unable to breathe on his own, not sure if he'll ever be the same again. But he's alive. She tells herself again and again. He's alive.

“I never wanted-” he starts to say but she cuts him off with a harsh glare and he can only sigh the rest of his sentence away.

“Because that makes it all right does it? The fact that you never wanted any part of it? The fact you were forced to do it? No. It just makes you a liar, a thoughtless coward, a mindless automaton. I almost feel sorry for you.”

The words come out ferocious and unyielding but she can do nothing to hide the trembling rippling through her body with the pent up emotion.

He looks up at her and she can almost convince herself that that's regret she sees in his eyes. But he's a liar, she reminds herself, a supreme actor.

There's a wetness on her face, running down her nose and she's not sure when she started crying or who she's crying for.

“Simmons,” he says softly, eyes imploring and something within her snaps.

She doesn't really know where it comes from but she somehow finds herself storming forwards, and it's almost an out of body experience as she watches herself lift her hand and slap him hard across the face. The resounding 'thwack' has them both startled.

“We trusted you,” she whispers on a shaky exhale of breath, her hand limp by her side, numb with the shock.

_I trusted you._

_We were a family._

_We let you into our hearts._

_I let you into mine._

She can't find it in herself to say any of those words.

“I'm-”

She shakes her head, “Don't you dare.”

“I'm sorry.”

She closes her eyes.

When she opens them, the glisten of tears in her eyes is gone, she wipes her face dry with the edge of her shirt sleeve.

She stands a little taller, an eerie calm having taken over as she slowly steps back towards him. She bends slightly so she's at his eye level and she can't help but notice how his eyes don't leave her face for a second. He looks like a man drinking in his salvation and she can't help but reach out and cup his cheek. Covered in stubble, slightly red from her earlier act of uncharacteristic violence, she watches in fascination as his eyes fall shut.

He squeezes them tight, and she thinks it's almost a prayer leaving his lips when he whispers again, “I'm sorry.”

She takes a moment, to brush her thumb across his jaw before she says, “I hope you outrun your demons.”

His eyes snap open and there's a question in them.

Forgiveness.

Is that what that was?

She abruptly steps away.

“Simmons?” he asks. The question still there in her name.

She turns away and knocks on the door for the guards to let her out, all the while still feeling his eyes boring into the back of her head.

The door opens and she steps through.

She doesn't look back once as it closes behind her.

“You okay?” Triplett asks.

“I'm fine,” she says, “Let's go home.”

As she follows after him down the long corridor, every footfall is both an echo of her words and her silence.

She hopes it haunts him.

She's sure it will.

 

 

**End.**

 

 


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